Having settled that, Marcia was displaying an unusual interest in current affairs.
Did you know that Hadrian is on his way to Britannia?
The reason became clear in the next line.
I hear he has thousands of people on his staff. I’m sure he could find something for Tertius if you ask him nicely enough.
Ruso shook his head in disbelief. He supposed it was his own fault. He had once held several short and dust-covered conversations with Senator Publius Aelius Hadrianus about treating the injured in the aftermath of a terrible earthquake that had flattened most of Antioch and nearly killed the reigning emperor Trajan. Some years later, when Hadrian had risen to even greater fame, Ruso had been foolish enough to mention these fleeting encounters to his family. Instead of being mildly interested, his stepmother had been convinced that persistent demands of And what else did he say? would help Ruso remember a series of cozy chats that ended with Hadrian saying, If there’s ever anything I can do for you, my friend … and Ruso thanking him and promising to be in touch as soon as my stepmother’s told me what I want.
He continued to read. Please don’t let us down, Gaius. I know we are a long way away and you probably don’t think about us much now you have managed to get back into the army, but we are your family, and we will never get another chance as good as this.
He sighed. Marcia was in for a disappointment. With luck, by the time he had made his way back to Deva via every possible outpost and watchtower, the imperial tour would have passed by.
He felt Tilla’s hand close over his own. “We will have a good life,” she said softly.
For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about. Then he realized she had thought he was sighing over their lack of offspring. “Of course we will,” he promised.
Chapter 16
Ruso woke in darkness and stumbled across the room to find a bleary-eyed matching slave waiting outside the door with a lamp. Tilla muttered something about getting up to help and promptly went back to sleep. He shrugged his way unaided into his heavy armor, which still smelled of olive oil, eased the hooks into place, and fumbled with the slippery leather thongs in the poor light. When they got back to Deva, he really must find the money for a slave boy.
The storm had cleared overnight. Munching on a wine cake he had grabbed from the table on the way out, he made his way to where Accius’s flunkies were tacking up the horses by torchlight. After a brief acknowledgment when the tribune strode out of his suite to join them, the men from the Twentieth rode across to the fortress in silence.
Ruso, who was on foot, left the others to dismount in the courtyard of the headquarters building and walked around the outside. The street was empty now. In the dull predawn light he stood on the spot where the blond figure of Sulio had fallen. The flagstones had been washed clean, the gravel raked. He bent to pick up something beside his foot. It was a strand of straw that might have come from one of the mattresses.
Above him, the gable end rose black against the clearing sky. What had passed between Geminus and Sulio in those last moments? How had Geminus tried to entice him down, and why had Sulio refused to listen? Did the deserter, Victor, have anything to do with it? Did Tadius? There was definitely something odd about the death of Tadius. Or was Sulio overwhelmed with grief about his drowned lover? He didn’t know. Somewhere in the southern tribe of the Atrebates was a mother who would never know, either.
He tossed the straw aside and headed into the headquarters hall for morning briefing. The dead had never been his patients. This morning he needed to concentrate on the living recruit who had taken a slice off one arm.
The briefing was a formality, since most of those present had already met and discussed the same issues over dinner last night. The sun was just gilding the tops of the surrounding roofs by the time the men were marched into the courtyard, ready to watch the sacrifice. Ruso slipped in next to Pera. The plump centurion poked the line straight with his stick and then moved on. After he was gone, Pera murmured, “Sir, I’m assigned to sanitary inspection this morning. Can you do the ward round?”
As the senior medic Ruso would have expected to be consulted about where Pera was assigned, but this was not the time to say so. Barely moving his lips, and with his eyes focused on a dent in the helmet of the man in front of him, Ruso said, “Of course.” Then he added, “I read your postmortem report.”
When there was no reply, he glanced at Pera, who was standing like a statue. He showed no sign of having heard. “Why can you write the truth but you can’t speak it?”
Still no reply. More men took their places ahead of them. One recruit was hauled out of line for some misdemeanor. As he was being marched out of the courtyard by a pair of Geminus’s junior officers, Ruso heard Pera murmur, “Geminus’s two shadows.”
The miscreant had barely disappeared when the tinny sound of a rattle being shaken around the courtyard served as a warning that the procession was on its way. There was no chance of further conversation now, with the centurions glaring along the ranks like schoolmasters watching for bad behavior.
Ruso had to admit that Accius looked imposing in his toga. The aristocratic voice rang out clearly, reading the traditional words with confidence. There was no stumbling and no interruptions-not only auspicious but a relief, since it meant they would not have to go back to the beginning and start again. The ram appeared content to be led up to the altar: another good sign. The blade flashed in the early morning sun. The animal barely struggled. The blood spurted. It was all very professionally done. Even to a man whose religion consisted mostly of half-formed and unanswered questions, it was strangely reassuring.
Ruso hoped the men would be impressed. Whatever words might be necessary to pacify the spirits of the dead would have been said over their pyres last night, and with this performance the pollution of the deaths and the nonsense about the curse should be over. The men now marching out of the headquarters courtyard in their best kit would soon head west across the hills to Deva, where they would be split up and assigned to their centuries. Older, wiser, and better disciplined, they would each make a fresh start in the Legion.
On his right a quiet voice said, “That question you asked me earlier, sir …”
“Don’t tell me to go to Geminus.”
“It’s best not to ask that sort of thing at all, sir. You really don’t want to know the answer.”
Chapter 17
Two days’ march south of Eboracum, another dawn sacrifice was offered with more than the usual gratitude. This one was to Neptune and Oceanus. Sabina watched the smoke rise into the clear sky, fingered the cluster of emeralds in her one remaining pair of earrings, and tried to be grateful that the rest of her luggage had been saved instead of furious that most of her jewelry was at the bottom of the ocean. She was not sure where this outpost was, but of one thing she was certain: she would never set foot on a ship again until it was time to leave this ghastly island behind.
She left the emperor striding about the place, deep in conversation with Clarus and the local centurion. The centurion was probably still reeling from the shock of sighting a battered imperial flotilla in the estuary. Hadrian would be doing the rounds of the survivors, pausing to chat to exhausted sailors, inquiring about injuries to the horses, and sympathizing with the comrades of the men washed overboard. Meanwhile she was taken to the local inn, where she was to lie on a couch in some other woman’s clothes while her staff went in search of her missing luggage. She glanced across at the emperor’s secretary, busy scribbling despatches explaining the change of imperial plans.